The Illogical
by Fel008
Summary: "Do not get too close to our robot helpers. They are our tools, not our friends."
1. Prologue

His darting eyes avoided the educational video. Under the guise of its informative nature, the voice of the one narrating held a judgemental undertone so strong to him he wanted nothing but to run away. It was as if it was lecturing him, painting him and his family with a brush of blasphemous association.

"...Remember: we should never become so close to our robot helpers. They are our tools, not our friends."

' _Friends_ '. The silent class was indication enough that the true message was perceived by those it aimed to inform. The thrown paper ball against his head was just added reassurance.

They became hard stones at recess. He could always rely on his best friend when the teachers failed to provide justice. Not assuming otherwise, he sought him out at the slide where they had previously hidden from his recent tormentors. On his hands and knees, he attempted to retreat to safety. "I brought a new game today," he weakly announced, enjoying slight relief his friend's presence gave him. Perhaps it was the bullies now targeting his friend, or perhaps it was the film, but he was greeted with a bizarre silence.

His friend sat still, his large frame contradicting his small and defeated air. He didn't even look when responding, "I can't be your friend anymore."

Tears were masterfully held back by the end of the day, threatening escape when the locals' glances and whispers haunted him. This was becoming the norm.

At home, it was no better. His parents were almost never in the same room; almost as if it was gracefully planned for them to never share the same four walls. Of his own choosing, he was around his father. This wasn't how it used to be. The man was always working; it was normal that he'd develop a closer relationship to his mother. It was sadly awakening what one event can do to alter such a connection. It was a bitter lesson early in his life.

"I leave at 10 A.M. tomorrow," his mother's defeated voice muttered, barely audible from across the hall. His father did not respond."I'm sorry." His mother's pleading, repeated for the hundredth time, always sounded sincere. Yet, it did little to change the words in his head. Terms he knew better than to repeat despite not comprehending them. Terms his classmates and town folk kept saying as if they were still original. He tried to fight them during his dinner. He tried to fight them on his way to bed. His video games began to lose their distracting nature.

He wasn't awoken by the familiar smells of breakfast. No bacon, no pancakes, no eggs. This too, was becoming the norm. Aggressive voices filled in for the missing sizzling and mixing that once accompanied the morning meal preparation. His parents had broken their graceful act of remaining separate; perhaps her eventual departure prompted a shift in their style. Maybe things were improving.

By the time he had reached the bottom of the stairs, his mother was already gone.


	2. Prologue pt 2

10 am on the dot. She was never one to be late; the scolding she gave her son when he was tardy did not come from a hypocritical woman. In a small room, there were two men before her dressed in semi-formal attire. One motioned her to sit on the single chair behind a table that separated her from them. They gave her small grins, a facial gesture that felt foreign to her as of late. It was so welcoming that she couldn't hold back a small one in return. Two more men then arrived; their formal wear and shaded eyes changed the somewhat friendly environment instantly.

"Mrs. Volt," one of the first men started, "we understand you signed the waver?" She felt a shock of pain at the sound of her husband's last name.

"During my husband's childhood, kids around him gave him the nickname Volt." She passed her signed waver over to the man, already taken from her purse. "His father was an electrician, you see. It made sense." The men looked at each other. " _W_ _ä_ _hlte_ is his real family name. It's German. See, it just made so much sense." The men were rendered speechless, mostly from attentive curiosity.

"He had it legally changed to Volt before we met, and now I know he's shocked. It just makes sense, doesn't it?" She kept her gaze down, staring at the signature she made on the waver the man held.

"Mrs. Volt, we'd like to start as soon as you're ready." The man began, trying to continue the original purpose of the meeting. "We want you to know that we want it all, no matter the details."

Her face soured slightly, a mix of disgust and sorrow no one could, or had the care to, detect. She looked up, her brown eyes meeting the camera before her. She could see a woman in the lens' reflection. The woman was disgusting.

She began to speak. "I'm ready." She inhaled, blinking her eyes rapidly. The story came creeping to her mind, starting from the most recent mistake. She traced her steps backward, questioning how she did it. She couldn't find an answer.

"We're rolling."

She started, almost visibly so. Breaking from her travel back in time, she stuttered at the woman in the reflection.

"My s-son said I was sick," her tale commenced shyly, "that the illness made me crazy." She wanted to shake her head, and in doing so loosened up with the camera. She gave herself to the machine. She was ready to tell her story.


	3. Chapter 1

No one was allowed to get too close to the grill. While most enforced on her son, it applied to everyone today.

These were mostly her son's friends, people she had barely heard of and to an even lesser extent known. To her, it was beneficial to get to know who her child was associating with; it was more her maternal instincts than friendliness behind organizing such parties. She felt no guilt over it so long as her son saw it as the latter.

"I would like the fish grilled please, Mrs. Volt." The young girl chirping behind her was becoming her personal favourite. She grew up being taught it was rude to select favourites, yet that didn't make it any less difficult. She whole heartedly approved of this particular friend, although she'd begun to notice how strangely these children were dressed. It must have been a generational thing; children were probably becoming interested in the warriors of the Far East. "Absolutely, Ana," she had no problem remembering the girl's name, a simple one given her outlandish ninja-inspired attire. "If your sister would like anything too, tell her to ask me beforehand." No one was to get burned.

The smell of fish wafted through the air, calling forth a few more of her son's acquaintances. It was good to see some of them up close. A judgemental eye scanned those who lined up; they were clearly in assumption that there was more on the grill. "Sorry, everyone," she began, thinking of how to keep them in her immediate view, "I only have one on the grill, but I can put a few more if you guys want seconds." A collective groan responded to her announcement, the rudeness appalling.

Her eyes landed on the sourest face of them all, belonging to a raven haired girl. Her son had quite a few female friends; she'd take note on that. She remembered her name beginning with an A, but favouritism beckoned ' _Ana_ ' to the front of her head. She was visually glued to the child, burning her bewitching image into her mind. She had made caution to use but a small amount of the foreign root vegetable the girl had offered as part of the barbeque. It was just enough to try it before serving. She had told herself that if it had a disgusting flavour no one was going to be having it. Its bitter, awful taste still returned following belches, lingering in her mouth. She'd let them leave, she hadn't the energy to give them a scolding.

She sat in a foldable chair, facing a crystal lake. She thought about the game they recently finished playing. There was no point letting her mood ruin the rest of the day. She could see how much fun her son was having and over the course of the evening she had come to understand why he had chosen them. Despite their vast differences in appearance and personality, they all seemed to function like parts of a machine. They were a team, and she didn't want to tear that apart. She was shuffling the playing cards slowly as she watched the water grow darker and darker before fading. She didn't realize how tiring this day had really been.

The clean-up was somewhat laboured with most of the guests having left. It was hard to get into the cleaning mode, having just been awoken by her son. She felt as though it were thrown to her to pack the day up, feeling like she was back at home. Her son did help, but having to make sure he did not become injured in the process only added more stress. "Don't do that," she'd warn, "You'll break that!" Her son tried his best, his small arms becoming weak over time. "Just sit in the car." She told him, fatigue harshly warping her tone when she spoke. She'd remember his heartbroken face for a long time.

The darkening skies were becoming frightening and she wanted to hurry. She rushed foodstuffs and unrelated items together in a bag, stopping at the half grated vegetable the girl left. _Ashley._ That was her name. She darted her eyes quickly, hunting for a spot to toss it. With it, she tried to discard the awful feeling that girl left in her soul.

Her son's best friend, the loyal lad he was, was unusually efficient with his work. He was clumsy; whenever there were messes to be cleaned it was most often his mistake. She had made the spontaneous decision to reward them on the way home with a desert, mostly serving as an apology to her boy. She hesitated before putting down a bag of plastic cups. She'd tell him now. His green jumpsuit stood out like a sore thumb, a beacon to his whereabouts in the darkening forest. He got ever larger as she approached him. His physique did not match one of a gamer; she'd hope her son would one day pick up on whatever exercises he was doing.

From the corner of her eye, one of the small grills was oddly afloat in the black that surrounded her. Instinctively she jerked her head once, then twice, before slightly gasping in a start. Crimson lights flashed before her eyes; a sparkling image imprinting on them briefly. "Oh," she blinked the lights away, "I did not see you there." Towering above her effeminate frame was a machine. Its square jaw hung slightly open, completing a stern cyan human face formed from coloured triangular pieces. It was as though it was designed after a jack-o-lantern. "Well, thank you…" She muttered quickly. It did not respond to her despite its humanoid features, seeming to be fixated on its task. She had seen this robot throughout the day perform as though it were a person and successfully so; the extra food she had was only present due to its inability to eat like one. Otherwise, she'd reward it with ice cream, too.

The car door slammed shut, and she did a quick head count of the two young men in the back seat. The taller one hung over the other; at first she thought he was sleeping but it soon became obvious he was in a trance of sorts, possessed by the soft glow emanating from her son's handheld game console. She would have been jealous if they were both asleep. She was begging for her bed, and hoped her husband had no other plans for that night. She fought off sleep, and as she felt she'd lose the battle her eyes twitched and caught glimpse of a blue cuboid figure flying across the sky. The beautiful red blaze shooting from its feet kept her brain awake, although she needed to keep her eyes on the road ahead. The light from her son's device was her last saviour, allowing her to make it to her driveway. She was, for the first time, grateful that he had chosen gaming over slumber.


	4. Chapter 2

The bacon didn't smell too good this morning. She laid pieces beside scrambled eggs on three white dishes. She glanced at the stove's clock, sighing. 11:00 am. Luckily for her, both her son and husband liked to grab as much sleep as they could on weekends. She remembered it was a Sunday; at least her late rise would go unnoticed.

Her tea, held in a pastel yellow mug, remained unconsumed as she spun the spoon repeatedly. As if it were a Christmas day, the excited stomps of children raced down the stairs. The heavier footsteps timidly trailed behind the lighter ones. She could feel the kitchen fill with bodies, the wind from their quick entry brushing her neck. "Bacon!" Her son's friend beamed, his large body threatening the chair when he sat. "Mom, did you make crepes?" Her son asked, searching the table for syrup of any kind. She stopped sipping her tea, unsure if there were enough eggs left to even consider them.

Her son almost whined, "You said you'd make them…" The rest of his sentence was garbled by orange juice. She didn't recall such a conversation. "I didn't have enough eggs," she began, trying to save face, "So I went with protein. Your father prefers his bacon and I can tell _he_ does too." She smiled and nudged toward her son's best friend. Little did he know he had just become her perfect alibi. Her son seemed to accept that story, not hesitating to dig in to his meal. He was bested by his friend who had already finished his portion.

"What kind of ice cream are you going to get?" His son asked his friend, pouring milk into his orange juice. It made her stomach churn and she pushed away her beverage. "Probably chocolate," he answered before correcting himself, "oh, or maybe strawberry." Her son smiled widely giving away an idea in his head, "Why not both?"

"I'm sure your mother is treating you to just one flavour." Perhaps she was so focused on the boys, or perhaps her stomach was distracting her. She didn't even notice her husband. She turned her head to face him, his grey robe dangling open reflecting his own weary state. He yawned, his icy eyes scanning the counter. "No coffee?" He asked, his words prolonged following the end of another yawn. "Oh," she looked at her tea, "Oh I'm sorry." He noticed it too; she didn't usually begin the day with tea. "One of your magazines covering a caffeine-free diet?" He quipped, laughing at his own joke. His smile reached the eyes, his stubble giving him a mature and handsome look. She loved that man.

The entire Volt family was in one room. They had a special nickname system, each one based off of a battery. It was homage to her son's grandfather. This included her son's best friend; he was more than just that to him. The giving of his own nickname cemented his spiritual adoption into the family. He went by _18-Volt_. Her son, _9-Volt_. Her husband, starting the practice called himself _4-Volt_. He called his beloved _5-Volt_.

A sudden telephone ring broke the harmony of the Volts' late breakfast. Her husband slowly got up, a slight sigh of frustration timed perfectly with his rise. Phone calls at dinner and phone calls at breakfast awakened a demon. In the caller's defense, though, it was already almost noon. She watched him pick it up, nodding his head after a gruff 'hello'. Scratching his face, he turned to his wife. "It's that relative of yours again." He waved the phone around, pointing it horizontally toward her.

Naturally, she got herself up quickly to answer it. Her head spun and she saw stars; it didn't do too much to stop her from reaching the phone. "Hello?" She gently greeted the caller, a weakness still in her voice as she recovered. "He'll be with family today," She explained, watching her husband sit back down, "I'll have them both brainstorm when they get back." She was quiet the rest of it, the caller's Italian accent thick and aggressive. Rolling her eyes as if experienced with him, she hung up.

"He's got attitude, Hun," Her man commented, clearing his throat of the morning's phlegm, "Remember, he doesn't have to do this."

Her son had always shown an interest in games and gaming culture. About a year and a half ago, she had come across a flyer seeking creative, independent minds to aid in the development of an innovative concept called 'Microgames'. Having little to go by other than the word ' _games_ ', she had attempted to introduce her son in the field professionally. It was nothing more than creating art and ideas, a bonding activity for a mother and son. Starting as something just for fun, it soon became recognized how a young boy's input was profitable. To keep her husband relaxed, she had kept up the story that her son's boss was actually a relative of hers, using her Italian heritage to convince him of a possible relation. It was enough. He would never have had approved of art as a profession, coming from a family of trade workers. As far as he knew, it was a get together and project involving the Sicilian part of the family.

She was glad he was actually no relative of hers; ' _Uncle Wario_ ' was a greedy, selfish man. If she didn't care about her son's professional future, she'd have ended this lie before it was even told.

"18-Volt and I have a few ideas we want to show you guys!" Her son interjected, his excited nature putting a stop to his father's argument. His friend nodded aggressively in agreement, his large toothy grin becoming signature.

She looked at her beau, who was brushing his fingers against a few pieces of left over bacon in a personal health debate over eating one. He seemed more interested in the saturated fat on the plate below him than his son's artistic endeavors. "We can have a look after we wash up," she politely said, watching her husband finish a bacon strip.

Immediately, her son began to collect plates. His friend let out a soft but startled 'oh', and followed 9-volt's behaviour.

"I'll wash up," her husband's caring voice spoke near her ear, "You go with the boys, see their mini-game thing. It's okay." With that he kissed her cheek in a farewell fashion, as if expecting her to go upstairs. She grinned as long as he looked at her, hiding her disappointment and showing her gratitude. She knew he intended to take a task off her back, yet she also knew he wanted little to do with his son's interests. How unfortunate.

At their dismissal, the boys were already half way up the stairs. 18-Volt was always loyally behind 9-volt, despite being able to outrun her son. By the time she had reached her son's room, having had stopped on several steps to collect abandoned toys, she was greeted by random, rhythm-less tunes. Her son's room was one of art and music; a video game themed décor designed by the lad himself. She recognized a few of the characters adorning his walls, like the ' _Green Elf'_ which she had repeatedly addressed the character as, upsetting her son in the process. There was a reason she wanted to encourage him to design games, even 'micro' ones.

She sat on the edge of his bed, her eyebrows narrowing as the music he played began to hurt her. The poorly organized song, if one could call randomly rubbing a vinyl record, drowned out the boys' voices. At first she placed a finger to her mouth, but its meaning went unnoticed. "Shh!"

She didn't want to shush them like that. The both of them stopped everything, the room now peaceful and painless. "Sorry," the larger boy quietly said. "It's okay, 18-Volt. I just have a little headache." She rubbed her forehead, "Let me see what you have made."

He pulled out from under his bed some paper sheets. She didn't like how he did so; one day he'd lose his ideas to her vacuum. She wouldn't always remember to look under there before cleaning.

"So, I wanted to make Mario have to hit the axe to destroy Bowser."She nodded, only understanding the name ' _Mario'_. "18-Volt suggested we make it stylus-based control." He tapped the paper, his red gloved finger touching a crudely drawn brown axe on what was an equally poorly scribbled scene. She did still manage to recognize it.

The silence downstairs pleased her husband, busy reading the day's news. He still preferred paper, not wanting to dry his eyes staring at modern phone screens. Sometimes 9-Volt's musical pastimes admittedly had him preferring his time at the fire station. He sipped his second cup of coffee, pushing back the thought of his son becoming a starving artist. The boy was only 7, and had many years to select a respectable career.

He'd just rest and enjoy the silence his wife granted him.


	5. Chapter 3

The final sheet went perfectly inside the folder. It was the last part of a wonderful portfolio that had been crafted by three talented minds. A large hand wrote the final touch, scribbled with as much effort as a grade school child could muster. It had to look nice, it always did; ' _Wario Ware, Incorporated'_ must be written as fine as the company, she always told them.

"There," she congratulated his calligraphy efforts; 18-Volt's learning disability was reason for encouragement. He struggled in literature and composition, having been diagnosed as dyslexic early in life. "Now it's ready for me to give to him. I'll deliver it next week." It was a promise she intended to keep; she was never late to submit her boy's work. She knew it was a factor keeping him employed. She placed the folder under her arm, and glanced at the clock, shaped like a game console she remembered seeing in her own youth.

"I think it is time for a treat," she announced, noticing the boys' faces gradually brighten with excitement. It almost made her headache go away. They simultaneously cheered, resuming the 'music' they had so thankfully ceased a few hours earlier. She tightened her eyes for a second or less, the noise feeding her ever growing migraine. Undetected by the boys, she bolted up. A second round of stars danced in her vision, causing her to quickly grab for the bed post. She forced her way out of the door in the hopes her near tumble went ignored. She was lucky.

A cleared path down the stairs made it easy for her to go into the living room, her fatigue only barely improving. She hunted desperately for her husband, pacing around rooms he normally frequented before leaning against the fridge for support. She stared at the drawings her son made that were so proudly displayed. Amid all the bright colours of a child's drawings, a yellow square stood out. It was not part of the fridge gallery.

Delicately, she plucked it. Small, black letters began to form words when it came close enough in her sight. Her husband's lettering was so tiny; it gave one frontal head pain when being read. She didn't need that now. ' _I got a call from the guys. I'll be at the bar. Be back around dinner'._

' _The Guys'_. His coworkers were the only ones he called ' _The Guys._ ' She crinkled up the note, the adhesive part of it sticking to her hand when she opened it to drop the sheet. She shook her arm, at first firmly but then more passionately. The paper didn't even appear to come lose, until she whacked it off her with the other hand. The effort made her light headed again. This time the feeling showed no sign of receding unlike the episodes before. She slumped on a chair, watching her world spin. Eventually, she had a brief moment of recovery. She noticed a plate of bacon loosely covered in Saran wrap on the counter. Her husband did try, but he'd never be a perfect homemaker.

Tearing it open, she ate the two left over strips. Their dry yet oily texture nearly made her choke, yet she knew she had not had a bite to eat whatsoever. They seemed to do the trick, or so she thought. Forcing the last bite down, she rubbed her forehead as she waited just a little bit until she felt as though she would be able stand up. She made her way toward the end of the living room, a single frail finger pushing white drapes apart. With squinting eyes protecting her from the sun's glare, she inspected the drive way.

He left her with no car.

Her attention from the front yard was soon diverted. The sudden silence from above hit her like a brick; the mumbled voices coming down the stairs were like tiny rocks against her heart. A walk to the ice cream parlour seemed like an odyssey. She'd never be able to do it.

"9-Volt," She weakly began, turning to face the boys as they exited the kitchen. Her son had his shoes already on, breaking the house rule of keeping them off indoors. She hadn't the energy to care, her only concern being how to tell them she would not take them out.

"Hey, where's dad?" Her son interrupted her, approaching the window by which she stood. She inhaled as if to speak, but was overtaken again. "The car's gone!" Her son's little legs rushed him to the arched door, projecting him upward to catch the doorknob. It creaked open, the sound piercing her head. His voice trailed off the farther he went across the lawn, saying something about walking and his hover board.

Slowly his friend followed, a quizzed expression on his face. He groaned sympathetically before giving his opinion. "It's cool, 9-Volt. We can walk." While she knew 18-Volt was not particularly upset by this turnout, she had no doubt her son wanted his father around. He had mentioned something about taking home some rum and raisin; this was his father's favourite flavour. 18-Volt continued right past her, the two boys in full anticipation of a trip on foot.

She couldn't turn them down, especially her son. Behind his smile she could see disappointment, even from afar; even when her eyes were struggling. With that, she stepped outside, weakly dragging her purse from a couch on which she had left it last night. Maybe the determination to provide for her son made her feel somewhat healthier. She'd go with that.

The steps downward felt odd and hard, almost painful. She could feel every stone on the ground, jabbing into her feet.

"Mom," she heard, taking a moment before looking down. "Mom!" Clearly she hadn't responded fast enough.

"Mom, you're in slippers!" She glanced down, a red hue taking over her face. The colour assumed embarrassment, her son took notice. "Lucky I caught it, eh?" He quipped, his smile reaching his eyes much like his father. She couldn't help but grin at that, there was something about the Wählte face that initiated forgiveness to the bearer's teasing.

"Alright, stay here. Give me a moment." She twirled around playfully, trying to add to her son's comedic behaviour. She instantly regretted it.

By the time she went back inside and passed through the arched doorway, it all came back. The chairs around her spun and the walls followed suit. She tried desperately to stop it, to ground herself. When the room slowed down, she headed toward the thermostat. She had to turn it down, immediately.

Her shaking hand pinched it, attempting to spin it to the left. It barely budged. She knew it was at a low setting; she didn't need a focused mind to be able to tell the heat was from within herself. Beads of sweat trailed down her nose, tickling her. She attempted to swat it away, her entire arm giving up half way to her face.

"Look at that beetle," 9-Volt told his friend, squatting at the ground. He poked at a strange insect, observing its reactions to the rude prodding of his red finger. "Should we show mom when she comes?" A larger, tanned hand clawed for the bug. Trapping it like a prisoner, 18-Volt closed his fingers around it. "Word!" In his urban-influenced language, he agreed.

She stared at a picture frame, her own image staring back at her. The woman in the photo looked so happy, her boy right beside her. They must have been at an event or had a nice family brunch. That was so nice.

So nice.

The mother and son slowly rose above her before she couldn't see them anymore.

"9-Volt," his friend asked, discomfort in his voice, "It's tickling me... I'm scared it's going to bite. They don't bite, do they?" He danced around a little, his white shoes stomping around his friend. "Can't we let it go? Now? _Now_?" Despite his enormous stature, 18-Volt was more of a comedic lackey than anything else. 9-Volt glanced up at him, giggling a little menacingly. "Let's go show her! She's taking forever." He proposed it with an annoyed tone; the wait of 10 minutes an eternity to him. "She's probably doing mom things," he added sharply, "Did you leave your boombox on the floor or something?"

Ignoring his friend ranting in denial, he led them toward the house. The door still slightly open, he didn't have to jump up to get himself inside. It was fortunate for him, what with his friend's massive hands seemingly full handling a tiny threat.

In an instant, he let it go.

There, in front of their young eyes, was 9-Volt's mother. She was no different than the purse and cushions that lay on the floor. She was just a lifeless, just as still. Her brown eyes remained partly open, staring at the air above and her hair damp with sweat.

The beetle buzzed around, hitting 9-Volt in the right ear.

He didn't even flinch.


	6. Chapter 4

Her mother told her something made for you tasted better than had you made it yourself. Pushing her tray to the side, she found herself in a disagreement. She'd leave the orange juice and Jell-O for her son when they arrived; she had no knowledge of what time it was. That could be a long, long time from now.

"All done?" She turned her head; finally the stars didn't return. The nurse began to collect her leftovers, a slight frown at the amount she had remaining. "Please leave those for me," she quickly placed a hand on her juice and dessert. "I'll have them later." She kept her thin arm above her small collection of pre-packaged foods. She examined her nurse's face for any signs of accepting her story; how fortunate it was that she took it. "Okay, at least you get some food in you." It was like listening to herself. The nurse cleaned up quickly, making sure all was spic and span. Turning her rather youthful figure in a twirl before leaving, it was also like watching herself.

Eventually, the juice became warm. The Jell-O would have met a similar fate if hunger hadn't prompted her to consume it. She had to seize every moment her body asked for food. Tucked in her hand as though it was a stolen toy a child didn't want to lose, her thumb rubbed the juice's foil covering as though to comfort it. She wouldn't have been able to consume them both herself; her appetite was seemingly non-existent since she awoke. She had to be sure her son would have it. She looked out a window and like a hawk watched for a certain vehicle. It was nice that her room had a view of the main entrance. Maybe it was getting boring, or maybe she was still tired. Regardless, nothing was helping her stay awake. The creeping darkness outside was not from the time, and she knew that. She wouldn't fight it.

A heavy weight forced down on her arm, the shock of it bringing light to her world again. She blinked, having begun to hear what sounded like "root"; by the time the sentence was long finished it was only then were sounds clear.

"Mom!" What a perfect time to be heard. She lifted her torso up, mentally searching for her special item. "9-Volt!" She chirped, some strength in her voice. He smiled widely at her recovery, his large eyes scanning her hospital garb. His smile faded slightly before continuing, his eyes lowering to the tubes emerging from her arm. "You're coming home today, right?" He was locked on the tubes, following them visually with child-like curiosity up to the saline bag they snaked from. "Oh, yes, yes, I will come home," she laughed gently as she reassured him, but it was a single glance at her husband that forced her to be more truthful this time. His frown did little to hide his awareness, his understanding. She confessed, "In a few days."

She pulled out her gift, the joy of finding it still tucked besides her adding a hint of true happiness in her voice. A child through and through, the orange juice despite its warmth was the perfect distraction from the truth. She'd have to stay in hospital for a few days longer, as she had been told the minute she was given a bed. "Yep," she turned her face upward, admiring the rugged jawline her husband had been blessed with. She waited for the rest of his breathy response. "It's going to be you and me, kiddo." He tapped his knuckles on his son's yellow helmet. The boy wore that thing as though it was a bowtie to a suit. His father didn't take too kindly to his son's bizarre apparel, claiming concern over potential harassment. If anything, the occasional teasing came only from him. 9-Volt stuck out his tongue, a faint mumble of frustration going ignored by his adult bully. "Will you survive?" She leaned closer to her husband, trying to twist her body as to lie on her side. Her grin was playful and naughty, her squinting eyes seductively testing him. He noticed the challenge in her demeanour, triggering his masculine competitive nature only ever so. His posture straightened, noticeable only to him. He gave her a brave stare in return.

"He'll be fine, mom!" Her husband regained his more docile air, turning his attention downward to his interjecting son. His face twisted into a puzzled awe, addressing his son's audacity, " _I'll_ be fine? Don't think your hands will stay dry, boy. I have a sink full of dishes with your name on it." 9-Volt squeezed the foil covering of his citrus drink, now finished entirely. "I have homework, I can't." He made an attempt to defend himself, although it was hardly convincible enough to protect him. His father crossed his toned arms, his physique mirroring his attitude, "I have _work_ , I can't." It shut his son up instantly; the boy's retreating glances at his mother for help were more than obvious. If she hadn't already watched the whole exchange, she'd have been able to sense them, they were so piercing. "You'll both work together. The two of you can manage." She put out an arm to her son, requesting the crinkled container he was beginning to mangle with torment.

She saw him fixate again on the tubes jutting from her, his mouth fighting back words. "Mom," It couldn't fight hard enough. "Are you a cyborg?" His straight face told her he was serious. She quickly darted her eyes at 4-Volt; by his smirk, he was thinking the same thing. She could tell.

"Well, you've got me," she pretended to give up some secret, "I'm here because they are making me a robot." Her son jumped forward off the chair he sat, his little feet racing him toward her. "Dad, really?" His father shrugged at him, nodding with a grin as though he, too, had been found out. 9-Volt grabbed at the base of the pole holding up the saline bag. His parents watched him do so, the two of them starting to regret their prank. "Is this your power source? How will you move around attached to that big computer?" He hopped up and around, trying to have a closer look at the machines surrounding his mother. The shaking of his arms on their plastic covering produced an alarming rattle as his childish excitement threatened them. "Okay, 9-Volt," his father called out, deciding to end the joke then and there.

His son, immersed in a science fiction come reality, attempted to climb the very bed his mother lay upon. Her husband's face wrinkled in a visible rage, mixed with a fear only an adult could comprehend. "Get down!" His roar echoed down the hall, a passing visitor naturally giving a swift glance. Her son gasped, snapped out of his fantasy. Without a word, he crawled down the bed. He almost slipped at one point, miscalculating the distance his foot had to drop to the floor.

"Sorry." He kept his gaze downward; standing beside his mother with a shame so powerful it filled the room. His apology was greeted with nothing but rhythmed beeping from the very monitor he tried to explore.

His mother put a hand on his shoulder and rubbed, simultaneously frowning in disappointment. Her husband remained firm and cold, she knew he believed her expression was in relation to their son's behaviour. He had no idea it was also concerning his.

She thought about it all evening, long after the two had gone home. She thought about how they were doing, how much work was going to be left for her when she came home. She wanted to tell herself she really did have faith in them. No matter what angle she came at it, there was no way a seven year old boy diagnosed with an attention deficit disorder and a man raised in a traditional, conservative family could handle the upkeep of a house.

She wanted to get better quickly; she wanted the occasional bouts of nausea to go away. By the doctor's mannerisms she didn't fear for her life, but she did fear for her home.


	7. Chapter 5

He usually looked so fatigued and disheveled. His sips of lunch room coffee and half-hearted smiles with fading laughs masked the exhaustion of constant responsibilities. The gradual downfall in his mental condition made her own improvement something to fear; closer she would be to returning to an unknown, insurmountable task.

As for her son, he was as lively as ever; the only one seeming to grow more pleasant as the visits continued. She'd send them home early, telling her man to get a good night's rest.

She laid her head on her soft pillow, listening to the timed beeps from her heart monitor. She could hear her regained health in the beat.

One more day. She heard the doctor say only one more day.

She'd attempt sleep a little later than usual tonight. She found herself wanting to stay longer; she wanted to stay away from her work at home.

She didn't really respond to the nurse that following morning. The lengthy slumber she went through only made her return inevitably closer. It wasn't what she intended, waking up sometime after 10 am.

"Mrs. Volt, this morning we had something special." The nurse finished slowly wheeling in the cart, filled with some returned trays of half consumed food. It was not too long ago that 5-Volt couldn't have understood how any of the leftovers on the cart were consumed at all; now, she was ever so curious as to what was for breakfast. For the first time since she arrived, her stomach wambled in desire.

The nurse placed the tray atop 5-Volt's table. "Warm eggs and bacon. Good food for a Saturday." 5-Volt sat up; enjoying the smell of a weekend meal she'd made herself many times before. It reminded her of home and her family, which lead to a reminder of what was to come.

She was allowed to wander the hospital as of late, the quiet family room a common choice. She had revisited an interesting book from the library there, the selection humble in number but sophisticated in its titles. The novel from her childhood was immediately spotted, a white piece of paper still wedged between the pages where she last retired. The makeshift book-mark was bent and worn, having been handled several times. There was little time to get far into the story; her son would interject himself into her reading quite literally. 'What are you reading?' and 'Where are the pictures?' made him the center of attention that a great tale could not compete with.

Her fingers softly tickled the top of the page, treating them as she had been taught when she first ever discovered the book. She slid her hand down slightly, encouraging the thin sheet to the left. To her surprise, the paragraph printed upon it was short and concluding. With the following paper being the back cover, she had completed the story.

She put the book down in her lap and waited. Her body braced itself for a full on attack from her 50 pound assaulter. That never happened.

It never happened when she had lunch. It never happened when she had dinner. It never happened when what felt like hordes of people came in and out of the room in front of hers. She heard something about a birthday. She couldn't help but try to peek, to mentally join them. It was no use; her view was far too obscured to even begin to pretend feeling involved. She could do nothing but vaguely listen to their pleasure until it gradually quieted to nothing but echoes of a good time. A chuckle here, giggle there. The increase in good byes were her signal to end her own day.

She leaned over to her right side, facing away from the door to the hall. She closed her eyes.

With some shock, she opened them. A wheelchair rolled in quietly, a timid 'oh' escaping the lips of the elderly visitor being strolled in.

She didn't want to jump up at first; the woman was evidently ashamed of bumping her tire against 5-Volt's bed. She'd pretend it went unnoticed. Additional voices filled her once silent space. Days of privacy were being concluded as it became obvious that the senior was going to be her new roommate, if at least for a night.

"The young nurse here is so caring." Soft words caressed her ear, this time causing her to move. "I'm sorry I bumped you, this thing is so clunky." Her brows furrowing, 5-Volt lifted her eye lids again. She realized she hadn't convinced the woman she was deeply asleep.

She finally turned around to face the new resident. "It's nothing, please don't worry." 5-Volt's small smile was unable to stay hidden, gliding across her face. "I suppose you are here to fill the room as I leave?" She sat up, supposing her joke would fall on good terms with the new lady.

"Oh, I see this place was a two patient room given to one? I'm going to like it here." Laughing, the old woman fluffed her pillow. 5-Volt supposed correctly.

She tore off the foil covering of her apple juice, the peeling making a sharp noise. "I usually save these for my son," she started, sipping her beverage, "but my appetite is back now. These little cups have some good juice!" It took no more than two swigs to finish it and this was only because she was trying to savour it. "A diminished appetite is no good." The woman's raspy voice replied. "What brought you here young lady?"

5-Volt stared ahead of her, the dim light in the room made it hard to really focus. "I ate something bad. A rotten root vegetable." She felt as though she had broken some kind of rule.

She thought of the girl her son seemed to know. While it was foolish, each day 5-Volt sat in this bed served as a reminder that the entire hospital could have had similar patients.

She kept this to herself, even though her roommate's lecturing laugh prompted her desire to tell the truth. "I didn't know it was rotten. You'd think as a homemaker for seven years I'd be able to tell." It killed her to say that.

To her surprise, the elderly woman shook her head. "I've been one for sixty-five. You don't think I haven't made my mistakes, even today?" She pulled off the elastic that tied her silver hair into a tight bun. "I should know better not to walk into a kitchen I just finished mopping." She lifted her blanket, revealing a deep bruise that trailed down her leg like a landmass on a map.

5-Volt visibly cringed, her hands covering her tiny mouth. With a muffled voice, she gawked, "Your husband must have been so scared!" She knew her own brave fire-fighting beau had been terrified when she was sent here; any other man would have to be the same.

Lifting the blanket to cover her injuries, the old lady waved a frail hand dismissingly. "He was useless. Fifty eight years a breadwinning engineer and unable to react when life became scary. I had to call 9-1-1- myself!"

5-Volt sat shocked; 4-Volt was apparently quite the hero according to her nurses. "But you know men," the woman continued, claiming full attention from 5-Volt, "they break their backs making money for us but when it comes to matters of the home and family care, suddenly we're the head of the household." She leaned in, as if to tell a blasphemous secret. "They just don't want to admit it."

5-Volt frowned, the growing darkness hiding it. Her husband had been struggling these past few days, with some visits being cut short. Those dishes were calling his name, he'd say.

The rest of the night felt so long. Perhaps it was from the snoring of her company or the hunger creeping up on her. Her body was more than ready to go home now; her recovery was done and every minute here was another minute where a domestic tragedy could strike.

The morning's breakfast was welcomed. As unordinary as it was, a meal was a meal nonetheless; a starving stomach would not reject a simple dish. She sunk her silver spoon in the bowl, milk running into it. She caught a few floating bits of cereal and started eating. She occasionally glanced at the window where she'd had days of mundane scenery. Sometimes, she'd have some entertainment with a squirrel or a sitting bird by the window. The best thing she'd ever see was always her son and husband walking toward the entrance, even if it was slowly and with obvious fatigue.

However this time, it was different. Her son was extra excitable, a small yellow dot dancing around the brunette man who was seemingly able to keep up. She squinted; if it weren't for the signature helmet of her boy she'd not believe those peppy people were her family.

"Well," her roommate huffed, coming around her bed from a trip to the washroom. Rosemary was her name. "Those two seem eager to come inside." She creeped back into her bed, mindful of her bruises. "Oh, cereal? I could make a better breakfast with my arms tied behind my back."

A grin slid across 5-Volt's face, not responding to Rosemary. Not even the most generic breakfast in the world could put a damper on what was happening. Something had changed her husband's energy. Whatever it was, she hung on to the idea that it wasn't just because she was coming home with them today.


	8. Chapter 6

It was difficult for 4-Volt to get his wife's things packed with 9-Volt's hopping and rummaging.

A harsh glance from his father prompted the boy to wrap his arms around the leg of a bed. He swung himself around it with a slow pull, swaying gracefully. "You don't have to come back here, right?" He asked his mother. His voice was timid and soft, painted with the worry born of a child's wild imagination. "No, no. The doctor said I'm good to go." She reassured her boy, bringing on a little grin to his features.

Dainty hands closed the last suit case; stronger male hands wasted no time chivalrously taking it. "That all?" 4-Volt asked rather eagerly, seeming to be quite prepared to leave. She didn't blame him but of all people she would have been the one most ready to go.

However, she wasn't. The threat of a day's hard labour loomed over her head. "Yes, that's all I brought." By the time she ended her response, her family was already out of the room before she could say her good-byes to her roommate. She blinked rapidly in disbelief.

"They want to get out of here, don't they?" Rosemary sipped her tea, the steam making her glasses foggy. "It's the end of their responsibilities. It's the male nature, my dear." The floral scent of her jasmine beverage had 5-Volt craving her hospital bed again. "I'm going to miss this bed." She placed her hand straight down on the cushion, like patting an old dog for the last time before leaving it at the farm. She stayed there for about thirty seconds, feeling like an eternity to her family.

Tiny footsteps echoed in the hall, soon overtaken by the giddy laughter of an old woman. "Go on, love." Rosemary soothed, adding more gentle chuckles when 9-Volt tugged at his mother's arm. "Go show him how it's done."

5-Volt grinned with assured support. A firm nod and wave of her hand signalled her departure.

9-Volt's pouncing resumed as he felt freer with his mother. "So, I'm thinking chocolate." Her son chirped between timed hops. He was avoiding the thin lines between tiles on the hall floor. "Chocolate?" She raised a brow at his strange announcement. 9-Volt continued to elaborate. "When we get ice cream today! I'm getting chocolate." Her promised trip was never forgotten. "What makes you think I'm getting you ice cream immediately today?" She sounded like her husband, although sometimes 9-Volt had to be given some discipline.

9-Volt looked up, a little confused. "Dad is taking us! His treat! He said so." Her arm whipped at the shoulder from his leaps while holding his hand. It was strange that 4-Volt would be volunteering to take the family out; he was more of a homebody. Well, when it concerned the family. "My, my. That's special." She had to mask her growing concern at his change in nature. Something was strange and she knew she'd find out once she got home.

Her royal treatment was not complete without the car door opening without her touch. He was like a servant, her husband, doing every physical task involved in getting into the car.

Air was pushed forcefully as she sat on the chair cushion before she pulled the seat belt over her chest. She turned to look outside facing the hospital. As it began to slowly move away, she silently wished it and Rosemary one last goodbye. It was back to work for her.

"Did 9-Volt tell you?" Her husband's soft voice filled the car. She laughed with a tone that matched his. "I think I'll have strawberry." She caught glimpse of his signature grin, his icy eyes lighting up at hearing her so well again. The car ride was quiet. This was no sign of alarm for 5-Volt; her husband was never the talkative type during travels. The radio sung to her, having been given permission to listen to her favourite station as opposed to the news. It was quite nice listening to the music as her son's gaming noises tended to become quickly annoying.

Life returned to the car as soon as the vehicle shook crossing over the hump of the parking lot entrance. "We're here!" 9-Volt stopped his game; a sharp slap came from his handheld console as it was closed.

He shifted around in the back before escaping the car. He seemed to hop playfully toward her side, pulling at the door. The strength of his father got it open. She smiled up at him while she twisted her lower body to allow her feet to hit the pavement. "Quite the gentlemen," she teased before hoisting herself out of the vehicle. Her husband chuffed and rubbed her back. He kept his hand there while they walked; it eventually slid up to caress her shoulder.

 _The Gelateria_ was one of the most well-known places in their city. Many children had gone there for after school snacking and general leisure; 5-Volt herself had remembered its doors being opened when she was a young teenager. It had gone through many different owners over the years, but the current co-owner was a friend of her son's acquaintances.

"Strawberry, please," she requested without much further thought. "Chocolate and vanilla swirl!" 9-Volt jumped up and down, peering at the selection.

A single nod from her husband seemed to set the employee to work, stating aloud three orders with familiarity, "Strawberry, chocolate vanilla, rum and raisin. Comin' up." Straying from favourites was something her man failed to do.

Her husband tapped their son's shoulder and 9-Volt ceased his eager jumping. It could have been his strong essence of authority or it could simply have been the brown ball of ice cream being rolled onto a cone and offered to the boy.

9-Volt rushed to the first empty table he spotted, his treat already butchered by his tongue before he got there. He gobbled that thing as if he'd never had one in years; given his friend's connections to this place that was quite the opposite. The discount resulting from that had led, and would continue to lead to frequent visits. "Slow down, enjoy it." 5-Volt told the boy as he sat down in front of him. Delicate licks of her strawberry cone followed her statement. Almost in protest to his mother's demand, he resumed his rapid devouring. She did notice that it was rather quick even for him. Also unusual was the lack of her husband's support. Normally, 4-Volt was a chief enforcer of public etiquette. She decided to question him. "Why are you eating so fast? We aren't in any rush."

Upon licking his gloved fingers, her son responded. "We have something to show you!" He began to explain between licks. Completely ignoring his son's savage habits, 4-Volt interjected. "We can assure you it isn't a mess." There was a pride in his voice, a vibe so pleasant it encouraged 5-Volt to consume her treat a little faster.

Her husband's chivalry remained alive on the way back to the car; her hand never touched a handle or knob. "I could get used to this," she joked as they drove out of the lot. "I feel like a queen." A near silent chuckle broke from his grinning lips. She watched his eyes scan the road ahead. There was thought in them, some kind of change in his soul. She adjusted her hair and let the man take her home.

9-Volt's buckle came undone just before the car pulled into their driveway. He moved around a bit but didn't bolt the way he did arriving for ice cream. She didn't take note of it initially, until her expectations of having her door opened remained unmet. She looked around before motioning to grasp the car door handle.

There was a short pause in her movements when a gentle touch graced her thigh. "No need, hun." Her husband spoke with softness. She saw a small black remote in his left hand that dangled over the steering wheel. His thumb brushed the red button in the centre as though he had recently pushed it. She opened her mouth to respond but was silenced by the sound of their home's door slamming shut.

She whipped her head to face the source. A boxy, gold and silver being waddled toward the car door with the strict intent on opening it; 5-Volt gasped slightly at the sight of the robot in front of her. It was short with a very basic humanoid body plan, its square head designed with the most simple features of what made a face.

A cool breeze from the outside brushed her nose. Her husband's words had the same cool and calming feeling. "You needn't lift a finger ever again."


	9. Chapter 7

It was like she had entered a show room with furniture and appliances neatly on exhibit. There was nothing inside the kitchen that seemed touched. No dirty dishes, no food in pots, no stains of mysterious origin. She almost felt too sullied herself to even take a seat on her own chairs, too tainted to eat on her table. 5-Volt slid her open hand across it and she saw her reflection looking up at her. She saw a housewife. She'd like to take some credit for the upkeep; however such perfection could only be managed by the obsessive compulsive or the manmade. She was neither.

"Everything is so spotless!" 5-Volt finally spoke as she hesitantly lowered her body to rest on a chair. Before landing a creak startled her. The chair was already being pulled out for her with precise timing. She placed a hand on her mouth and let out a startled ' _oh!_ ' when the silver maid backed up. It awaited further command, giving her a blank expression. "My, my," 5-Volt craned her neck to face the machine, speaking as if to a person behind her, "Very courteous."

It didn't reply immediately. 5-Volt straightened herself back up, only once looking back. A sound bleeped from it, all three heads turning to face it in unison. "Thank you, madam." It was the first time the robot spoke; it's voice feminine.

5-Volt jumped a little at its direct response. Her husband laughed almost inaudibly, closing his eyes. "No need to be scared, honey. It won't hurt you." 5-Volt rolled her eyes at him in secret. Now that he mentioned it, a few of her son's sci-fi video games came to her mind.

"Where did you…get this?" 5-Volt asked aloud at anyone who'd answer. "Dr. Crymore!" 4-Volt announced with pride. She turned to face her husband rather quickly.

"Dr. _Crygor_ , dad." 9-volt piped up. His father seemed unaffected by this correction, dismissing it. "Mmhm, ah yeah." His hand pointed at the coffee maker. Without a pause, the robot waddled away from 5-Volt and made a rather dedicated trip to the coffee machine. Its arms twirled around with a clunky grace, as strange as that seemed. "Your 8 ounces of black medium roast coffee will be ready in 60 seconds, sir." Her husband nodded his head in response, barely thanking it. "We got it off of that old scientist and engineer. The one that lives on the island." He watched the robot and lightly nudged his foot against it. "It's called a Doris."

She knew that name. It had been the topic of radio stations, news programs and papers of all titles. The man's contributions to technology ranged from the truly magnificent to the downright deranged. Dr. Crygor lived far from the congregation of citizens, hidden within the laboratory stationed just where her husband had stated. It lay in the middle of the lake; lights remained flickering at odd hours of the night. This never seemed to bother the townsfolk, including her husband. His causal mention of Dr. Crygor was indicative of this. It did, however, bother her.

She would have shared her husband's aloof gratitude if the creator of this robot was not associated with _Wario Ware Incorporated._ Her son rarely spoke of him even during conversations of his work for his "uncle".

It worried her, as did all this.

"Her name is Doris. Doris 1. Dad, He told us it was her name." 9-Volt once again added, muffled slightly by his head lowered into his portable game console. It didn't react to the boy, completely fixed at the very code to bring 4-Volt his beverage. "Your beverage, sir." It handed him the coffee. Its arms stretched to reach him; Doris 1 was standing at best four feet four inches. Without a word, her husband grasped it like a rich man. The way he drank from it was as though he invented the robot himself. "I don't like how it calls you sir." 5-Volt said, tilting her head. "I don't want it making you guys act like…"

"Like?" 4-Volt lifted his eyebrow.

"Like spoiled children." 5-Volt glanced at her son, the boy so focused in his game he did not even react right away. "No!" He whined without looking up, only proving her right. She didn't really mean to use him to illustrate her point. In fact, she didn't even care about such things. She had to make something up; ' _It may turn on us'_ would have been met with a doubtful scoff from both of them.

"Nonsense." Her husband shook his head adamantly and then shrugged. "Doesn't everyone need a Doris?" He chuckled at his statement but no one else chimed in. His face slightly fell before a beep came from Doris 1. "Ha. Ha. Ha." It began to laugh, each ' _ha_ ' robotic and paused.

4-Volt stopped and crouched down in front of Doris 1. His fingers drummed the side of his mug, the steam making his cheeks red. Perhaps it was just the heat; to 5-Volt it looked like the excitement of this robot was the cause of his flushing. "Look at that," he spoke in a superficial wonder, "It picks up on social cues. Incredible."

5-Volt let a small grin sneak on her face. It _was_ incredible, she had to admit.

"We will be paying for its services monthly." 4-Volt explained between consecutive sips of coffee, stopping at the third one. "This isn't half bad." He lifted himself back up, the rest of his words groaning with effort as he rose. "It's like it was made by _you_." He winked at his wife; his grin would have left her upset if it was not so proud.

5-Volt looked at the robot for a few moments. "We are going to _keep_ her?" There were no stops between her sentences. "Then what will _I_ do?"

"Your Hobbies!" Her husband was quick to find a reply to that, as if he had planned for it. "9-Volt's…game thing. Get him away from all that screen time." He waved an empty mug around then placed it on the counter. 5-Volt leaned into her chair. She darted her eyes toward her son. He was nodding his head with such enthusiasm that his features became blurred. Evidently this was strong enough to pull him from his gaming. Her husband was right; if she could find anything to keep her son from playing too much she would make it her top priority as a mother.

"Yeah! Mom, we can make more games for Uncle Wario!" He squirmed in his seat. "I have a lot of ideas!" He slid down and his little feet pitter-pattered across the floor. "I'll show you! Come up!" She flashed her son a smile to humour him. As soon as the boy was gone, she continued. "That sounds all fine, but how much does she cost?" She could feel herself caving in but for each thing she accepted another issue arose.

Doris 1 had turned her head to face 4-Volt. "Do you want me to clean that mug, sir?" It looked up at him and waited for a response. Without a word, he nodded. The robot reached for it and waddled to the sink. With quick and timed precision the mug was lathered, rinsed and dried. 5-Volt herself was taken aback at the speed. 4-Volt caught glimpse at her awe in the widening of her eyes. "It's just so amazing." His voice was soft, its low decadence making the robot seem all the more of a luxury. He was right. A hand touched her shoulder and gently rubbed. "Don't worry about it. This is for you."

5-Volt could feel something familiar, something she had felt while in hospital. It was relaxation. Her eyebrows fell and her shoulders did the same. Her husband's hand massaged them, as if they could feel her tension lessen. The light from the kitchen window filled the room, bathing everything in a warm glow. She'd give this a chance.

Crossing her legs and smiling she made a deep, slow inhale. "Doris 1, I'd like a cup of jasmine green tea please."


End file.
